Angel's Song
by doomkiri
Summary: What happens after failure is a complicated thing. Future M/M. Violence, language, blood and other good bedtime reading. Dietrich-central. Chapter six now up.
1. Chaos

**Angel Song**

**Chapter one: Chaos**

**This chapter dedicated to Peeve, my dear friend. I didn't realise this until after I wrote the second chapter actually...I guess I'm a bit slow to recognise traits that are at home in my friends. Rated M because it gets nastier later on. Mostly Dietrich centred, and updates will come when they are ready.**

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Each hot, sultry summer night in Londinium saw the puppet master awake in a coffee-fueled frenzy. One couldn't let their guard down. Not when a certain underling named Radu Barvon ruins your mission in an absolutely idiotic manner. Perhaps if Dietrich made it back to Germanicus alive he could suggest a ban on the Baron's sleazy flirtations…Or better yet, to make him eunuch…

In any case, Radu was long gone now, having escaped with the bulk of their information back to Germanicus. Dietrich was left behind to pick up the pieces. Unfortunately, by that time a foolish priest on mission from the Vatican had ascertained the identity of this young Terran and the 'vampire' he was traveling with. That was seven nights ago; they almost caught him on the fifth night while he was sleeping. Hence the coffee.

This particular motel in which Dietrich was staying tonight was relatively modest, but a little odd too. Pared back decorations; a mediocre still-life, one of those cheap motivational posters hanging in the kitchenette. Despite the uplifting (?) words it offered on the topic of shame, in Dietrich's opinion to be caught here would bring an immeasurable amount of that particular feeling upon himself. Rabbit boy, darting fearfully between one hole in the ground to another, caught by the scruff of his neck, kicking hopelessly in the air. That couldn't happen. Escape was the only matter here, but required the cool, collected wit of his colleague von Kampfer, or perhaps Balthazar. In his current state, however, reason was treading a very fine thread.

Dietrich sat himself down on the very edge of a chair, and placed a pot of steaming black coffee in front of him. In addition, he placed a tea-cup (bone china, flowery) next to it. What an odd motel. A coffee pot, and only tea-cups? Out of his pocket came a small, leather bound diary in which Dietrich wrote down the day's movements, and calculated those of the next. At the current rate, he figured, it would take at least a week before he could reach a safe spot to evac. The diary was shoved back into the pocket, one of only a handful of items Dietrich carried.

One coffee. Two. Another one. Two hours had passed of just sitting and drinking. Each time the pot was lifted, the puppeteer's arm would spasm wildly. What good was he at planning escape when he couldn't even hold a steady arm? Perhaps a shower would calm him. Dietrich placed his palms flat on the table, and with a great deal of muscle spasms and shooting pain pulled himself up out of his seat.

The bathroom was simple, small, and a little…homely? A clean white towel folded neatly over the rack within arms reach of the shower (draped with a see-through white curtain). A lone bench, with a basin, cheap hand wash and a cracked mirror. Dietrich shed his collared shirt (a white one). It reeked of coffee and sweat. Damn summer heat. A bag of washing powder was found under the basin, as Isaak's discourse on personal hygiene made its way into Dietrich's head.

All Dietrich's personal items (watch, wallet, diary, (fake) passport, handgun and holster) were placed on the bench. In the basin swam Dietrich's shirt, pants, socks and underwear. Hopefully they would be clean and dry before he was due to leave tomorrow. Dietrich took a glance up into the mirror. Fatigue was settling in; yawning black bags under the eyes, a complexion more gaunt than could be healthy, and every muscle shaking. A slight but noticeable deformation of his shoulders, and scars running down his hips had already broken the angelic physique. Breathing heavily, Dietrich cradled his own body…

Hell's water rained down from the shower head of the fairly modest motel. In truth it wasn't anymore than forty degrees Celsius, but to the (damned) tired it felt like being burnt alive. Dietrich ran more cold water, and his knees collapsed underneath him. He feared what would come if he were to drop his guard, what would come if he didn't move with care, and what would come if he didn't move fast. The puppet master drew his knees up to his chest and sat motionless under the water, and slowly…ever so slowly…

…asleep…

…and when he awoke the pistol glaring at his face screamed failure.

Unable to see past the soaked auburn curtain of hair flung across his face, Dietrich could only hear the voice of that priest arresting him in the name of those three holy things. That Albionian accent and faint hint of tobacco…The puppet master was hoisted up out of the shower, soaked and naked. A simple modesty, by way of a towel, was wrapped around his waist before his hands were cuffed and ankles shackled...

At least in the back of this strange car he could sleep as peacefully as that lady who tasted the poisoned apple.

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**Chapter one finished. Chapter two coming soon. **

**I have never had the pleasure of staying in unusual motel rooms, so this was just imagination. And I could just imagine that the Vatican officers had been 'watching' Dietrich for a while before they woke him up...Nothing suss.**

**Next chapter: Dietrich is thrown in the slammer, with a not so pleasant cell-mate (OC but who cares?). And Isaak receives a letter from an old acquaintance...**


	2. Ares

**Chapter 2:Ares**

**Dietrich is in the slammer...Contains violence and an OC.**

They had taken away his modesty for a routine weapons check. Dietrich standing naked in the centre of a small grey cell, three sets of eyes looking over him like he was a piece of meat. Four of these eyes were in the cell. The other two belonged to that damned priest, whom the puppeteer had his backed turned towards. It was getting cold again. A request from that Vatican dog, and Dietrich silently protested the indignity as he bent forwards and coughed to his feet. Shivering, he straightened up again, but struggled to keep his head from falling forward.

Someone threw him a set of garish prison clothes. Penitentiary blue, exceedingly baggy. Dietrich struggled to dress himself without fainting on the spot. Eventually he did both, and did not hear a final order from the Vatican priest to place him in a cell with one Valter Conrad. The two burly guards hoisted his rag doll body up off the floor, marched down a series of hallways, security doors and holding areas and dumped him unceremoniously in the tiny cell. Its current occupant sat unfazed as the guards removed Dietrich's cuffs and shackles.

Valter Conrad, a pale-as-death man originating from the Northern States, could not believe what had just been dumped in front of him. A cell mate. And they'd said no more for him not even a month ago. He salivated at the thought of this weedy young thing actually being so dangerous as to warrant this shared cell. Or perhaps they were underestimating him. The bastards had a horrible memory.

This man slid off his bed once the guards had left. Years of being confined to the sunless cells had turned his hair white, and constant exercise (what else was there to do?) meant he could hold his own against even a Methuselah. Perhaps this toy was actually one of those vampires…slowly lifting a lip revealed he was just a mere human being. Valter then went to the slot of his metal door, and turning his gaze towards another cell, winked towards it. 'Fresh produce'.

Mr. Conrad turned his gaze back to Dietrich, still very much unconscious on the cold grey floor. Half the work was already done in that regard. Lifting the young man onto a bed so as not to wake him, Valter removed a loose bar from underneath his own bed. Within this was a thumb sized needle, some plastic tubing, and a series of plastic blood bags. Removing these items, he replaced the bar. Back in business, and on this one's first night.

Before the harvesting was to take place, Dietrich was tied to the bed, and a gag was fitted into his mouth. Could never be too careful, especially as the demand for fresh blood from some of the imprisoned vampires was always a constant one. No guards patrolled here; the only ones present were in offices above the cells. There weren't many people with adequate strength who were willing to risk their lives in one of these prisons. Conrad held the needle up to his blue eye. Still sharp.

Dietrich's eyes burst open when the needle entered his right arm. It had hit a nerve as opposed to a vein. He tried to scream, but choked on the cloth gag. He couldn't punch or kick, and knocking his assailant with both knees was impossible, as he had been tied so that his legs were spread apart. Valter wasn't pleased at all. This struggle could result in blood going anywhere but the bag. He frowned, but remained silent. In desperation, Dietrich managed to launch one of his strings from his left hand, slicing through the ties that bound that hand to the bed.

Valter was mildly surprised. This tidbit wasn't entirely defenseless. Eyes wide with desperation, Dietrich flailed his arm around, cutting the bindings on his ankles and right hand. This was a problem. The puppeteer flung his left hand around to slap the blood thief. In turn, Conrad jarred the needle further up Dietrich's arm, twisting as he went, and surely severing blood vessels. Dietrich spat out the gag and screamed, clawing at this man's face. Inmates in other cells began yelling; some wanted their blood now, and others wanted the two to shut up.

Valter had to incapacitate this deranged cell mate. Flinging his body weight forward, Dietrich was now pinned underneath him, screaming obscenities and hissing. He couldn't have looked further from the sleeping beauty that he was when being transported to this prison. There was an arm near his mouth. He bit into it, thrashing his head about while clawing at Conrad's hair; sanity was evidently out of the question. His cell mate, however, had experienced much much worse, and grabbing the flailing hand proceeded to scrape it against the rough bricks of the cell wall.

By now Dietrich was bleeding profusely from both arms and had become extremely exhausted. When the blood thief pushed him to the floor, he just lay down, gasping. Conrad kicked him in the chest, just once, and put away his blood extracting equipment. Those bloody vampires could wait.

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One of his contacts had come through a few days ago bearing a letter. Isaak looked down to examine it. 'Isaak Butler'…Only one person. Only one who could be bothered to address a letter to this name. Whether the Professor actually knew the name he used now was of no concern. The Magician slipped the blade of a letter opener underneath the seal, and gracefully removed the contents within. Just a few lines. How disappointing. One would expect a former University of Londinium prodigy to be a more proficient letter writer. But when Isaak actually read the contents…caught alone, naked, and now being held in one of those Albion prisons.

There were things to do now. An underling was ordered to investigate the inmates of all Albion and Vatican prisons. Their current work was put on hold as Dietrich's brain contained all their necessary information. Another subordinate was ordered to analyze prison defenses once he had been located; yet another was sent to find Radu Barvon and bring him straight to Isaak, who was now preparing a special serum. One which the Baron of Luxor could appreciate as both a punishment and another of Isaak's useful(?) inventions…

Yes, there was plenty of work to be done.

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**End of Chapter 2. Some notes...**

**Bend and cough. To check for blades hidden up one's anus. If there is one in there, it will cause some serious damage when the inmate coughs.  
Valter Conrad. Valter was a random Russian name I heard somewhere, and Conrad because I couldn't think of anything till I saw I had a book by Joseph Conrad in my room.  
Northern States. According to a map in the first RAM novel, the Northern States comprise what we know as the Scandinavian or Nordic countries.  
Blood 'donation'. Inspiration taken from my own blood donation. It was far more pleasant than this, and I encourage you all to give blood.  
Hand scrape. I really did want to put a cheese grater in place of the wall. Just another one of my sick fantasies.**

Chapter 3 coming up. I think I have it titled as 'Thetis'. Have a bit of a Greek theme. Chaos used for chapter 1 merely as symbolism for beginning (the nothingness from which all came). Ares, god of bloodshed, war, murder if I remember correctly. Well, that's enough from yours truly.

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	3. Thetis

**Angel's Song, Chapter Three: Thetis**

It had been a long week. Or month. Or two days. However long it was, it was too much. Dietrich was going mad. Between his time on the run and the present, the longest unbroken sleep lasted six hours. And it wasn't really a sleep as such. More an unconsciousness, a sudden affliction often affecting those undergoing the prison's torture program. But at least he was alone in the torture chamber.

Valter Conrad was peeved, to say the least. Business needed to be done, and suitable product was available. But damn, it was hard to reap. After all, he hadn't counted on this one to be a freak…a 'witch' as they called them. A little snooping on his background revealed more surprises; namely, they were dealing with the devil-spawn of the former Duke of Germanicus. Young, fresh, and on top of that, 'rich'…Conrad could charge a little higher for noble blood, and make a killing on that virgin backside too, if he could get to it.

One hour of socializing time was provided for all inmates. Boxing, weight-lifting, painting for those so inclined…activities where prisoners could talk face-to-face, blended together seamlessly by their unified disgruntlement at incarceration. Dietrich took part in nothing, instead choosing to roam alone through the prison complex. It was a given that alongside their shared hate of authority, each inmate also had knowledge of the 'witch' and the undeveloped potential of his 'resources'. Suffice to say, many people wanted a part in this market, so much so that Dietrich was alone in this filthy sea of people.

Perhaps he could use his strings, murder everyone and make a break for it…No. He'd be more than just a marked man. The sheer number of inmates-vampire and human-also posed an insurmountable problem. Rioting, while it may result in him being freed from the walls of the prison, would also mean that in the ensuing chaos, he would be 'easy meat'…Dietrich resigned himself to the faint hope of rescue (or at least transfer) and headed towards the shower block. After all, the RCO still needed his brain…right?

This particular section of the prison was the only one with actual 'floor-staff' present during recreation time. Four officers presided over two rows of showers; to Dietrich they were the closest he would probably get to having guardian angels. Choosing a shower in the corner very close to one of the guards (this particular one being a Methuselah), he stripped off his prison gear. There was a sickly, thin rack running in between the shower rows; hanging his clothes up, Dietrich stepped forward towards the shower head.

There were no dividing walls between the showers. Every move of every bathing prisoner was open to scrutiny. Contrary to the shelter of shadows employed by the Rozencreutz, it was this constant transparency that gave Dietrich the greatest comfort and security. The watchful eyes of the guards could even be his friends…No need to worry. Baring himself to the uncaring gaze, the puppeteer could almost have paraded his naked, vulnerable body. Alas, he just wanted a place to be able to do nothing, and it was here that each drop of water slipping down the curves of his beautiful body could be observed in a trance. It might not be sleep, but it was the next best thing…

Recreation time ends the same way, every day, every time. Prisoners trying to snatch one more minute (or two) of idle chat with each other. The odd guard coming around to herd them back to their cells. Dietrich never bothered with this activity, but his cell-mate did most days. Today was no different…

...until Conrad beamed such a malefic smile towards his prey. For today, a long-time friend had come fresh from the shower block at the end of rec. time…Apparently, Dietrich was busy seducing a guard (and a Methuselah at that!)…Valter Conrad's main concern with this was that the market value of goods often dropped if they were 'pre-loved'. Therefore, it was his intention to sell, and sell now, lest his profits (measured in grams of pure white cocaine) should fall.

Ever since the failed 'blood-donation', Dietrich had avoided another serious encounter with his cell-mate (by good luck or skill one did not have the state of mind to discern). He really didn't want another. Not now. Conrad took a step forwards. Then another. The puppeteer stood up and glared. Valter Conrad took another step. Dietrich hissed, baring his teeth in an animalistic grimace. Conrad took another step…

Elsewhere within the prison compound, a visit was taking place. A new prisoner, tall and silent with dusky blond hair sat in front of a gentle-man wearing a cape and glasses with his suit.

_"Now now Wolfsheim. There's no need to be so sullen. Master has hired one of Albion's finest barristers to handle your case. I think his name began with…D?...Daniels? Oh don't worry, you'll find out soon enough. So anyway, how many days until your birthday? Five? That's a disappointment, but we'll have a magnificent celebration on your release, I promise. I'll even dance on the table-tops for you! Wouldn't you like to see everyone in an absolute riot? It would be hilarious! Alright, enough of me. I'm sure you'd like to spend today getting settled in!... Oh…well, shall I drop in again sometime soon?"_

_"Idiot."_

_"Tomorrow it is!"_

The melancholic new prisoner was escorted back to his cell (Block B, Cell 2). His companion waved good-bye, and with a twirl of his cape walked out into the sun. His pale skin felt tight under the ultra-violet radiation. Good thing he injected enough silver solution to last the day. An escape in broad daylight. How novel.

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**So...Chapter three finished. I might have to expand the number of chapters. Can you guess what is going on? Have some notes, because they seem to be quite popular:  
****  
Unconsciousness:Definition inspired by Ambrose Bierce's 'Devil's Dictionary', which can be found online.  
****Conard being peeved: Well, I had to put the Peeve reference in somewhere...  
Witches:One of the few things in this work which can probably be considered canon. Witches are not vampires; rather they are the ancestors of genetically modified humans, and developed some cool powers like telepathy. I assume Dietrich is one of these.  
Showers:Included because I still can't get over 'Don't drop the soap'...and because Dietrich gets naked!  
Wolfsheim:Name taken from F. Scott Fitzgerald's 'The Great Gatsby'. A man who has his hand in some shady business, and that's about where the similarities end I think.  
And finally, Thetis is a deity of magical cunning and wisdom.**

**Chapter four coming your way soon, though personally I look forward to writing the notes that go at the bottom more than the actual story itself...**


	4. Agdistis

**Chapter Four is finally up. It's a long chapter which was actually meant to be part of chapter three. The first section doesn't really have much plot I suppose. More character fleshing out stuff. I'm tired. R&R. Dedicated to anyone who has been waiting. Sorry.**

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**The Black Mask**

There was no point to his visit. Isaak only wanted the pleasure of seeing his demure colleague in prison colours, though the pale blue was incongruous with the real, inhuman nature of the Fang. In fact, if his silent chauffer had not been one of those rare things called 'werewolves', Isaak would most certainly have not called such a generous act as rescuing his subordinate. The magician would expect remuneration from Dietrich, most likely in the form of one of the many dull-but-not-really-pointless assignments which always needed doing.

As he walked away from the tree-shaded windows and solid stone walls, the handsome gentleman smiled to himself. While waiting for the prisoner they knew as Wolfsheim, the guards in the waiting room were more than happy to entertain such an affable, if slightly air-headed butler, with praises for his composed colleague. 'He's always so quiet, even if someone is screaming and what not at him. Everyone else just lets loose with the fists'; 'It's rare to see someone who doesn't get mixed up in drugs. It's a pity he had to end up in here'. During this idle chat Isaak took the chance to learn more about this delightful prison, and now he held such a great knowledge of the place it was almost a pity he would put these men out of a job, if not their lives by this same time tomorrow. Not to mention the fates awaiting the keepers of two other prisons elsewhere within the Albion country…

A smile like the one he had received yesterday after free time could be referred to in writing as an alternate spelling for 'oh shit' in terms of the recipient's future health and welfare. When one added the imposing steps forward, that meant something along the lines of 'you're on your own man! Jesus is jumping the boat', if one were so inclined as to believe in Jesus as a sailor and life as a paddle-boat. Dietrich's hissing then could be seen as signing his own death certificate, but since Conrad had turned his back and went off to sleep, it becomes quite difficult to find an entertaining, yet apt literary substitute for body language. Not that Dietrich cared for humour or literature at the moment. He had expected to be beaten into the floor, yet the confrontation had whimpered out at the height of fear; the residual dread caked onto his thoughts through the night and into the morning. By then it had become harder to pretend he was…whatever he was. If he said normal, well, that just doesn't fit. If he thought he was acting smart, then why be idle in here? Brave couldn't be it either; he was never brave. Just foolish. A foolish, stupid boy. Entrusting Radu with any sort of responsibility on this mission proved that. And what would the Orden possibly want with such an idiot? Plunging himself into the dangers of dependence when all he had was a fleeting awareness of the concept from the steady lessons of Isaak. Whatever it was, this veneer was being stripped away…

The name 'Wolfsheim' had become well-known within the prison alongside that of the 'Virgin Princess'. If talk was not of young Dietrich, then it was about the other loner, the mystery man. He was avoided by other inmates. The right to company was preceded by an obligation to provide information about one's self if said information is not known by the general public. No one could find a single piece of solid fact on the man with dusky blond hair and stern demeanour. Rumours, of course, sprouted. Fact of life. But for the fang, this lack of being was an excellent possession. _Deus ex machina._ He too knew that by Orden customs, Dietrich should have been left here to rot in the drama he had made, and that his own nature was just a conveniently placed solution to avoid wasting the boy. After all, it is a shame to let good meat rot. Though when he considers the pure evil which had been there since Dietrich's birth, it is hard to see any further putrefaction which could occur. But to linger in thought for too long would be unbecoming of the stoic face which had become synonymous with the Orden's Fang. And anyway, it was almost time to start work.

**To Swallow the Sun**

The punishment expected yesterday had come. Just after the doors were unlocked for that magical hour. Valter Conrad, the paled hulk of the Northern States, resolved to beat down the minor devil in front of him to his place in the order. His buddies outside were reliable enough, especially when offered certain 'discounts'. Dietrich had made a move for the door when he heard the bolts slide back, but found his path blocked by his cellmate. There wasn't really much he could do, save smirk and hope that Conrad knew what his strings could do. Which brings about the question, why didn't he use his strings? Unfortunately this question came to Dietrich like a bullet to the brain, and there was no time to gather his thoughts when Conrad seized the opportunity to slam a fist into his stomach.

Guderian tensed in the minutes leading up to recreation time. There was a side to him that so wanted to be free, to be able to tear through all the life within the prison compound. But that side had to remain incarcerated for now, and he could do nothing but be Wolfsheim, a frame without a photo. A click. He was free. And it was time to bring about the worst of human nature.

"Hey, it's Wolfy. Do you even know what he did to get in here?"

"No man. But he probably did something so bad it wouldn't be good for yer nut to hear."

"Oi! You cried on your first night remember? Ah stuff this. Hey, let's follow him and see what he actually does."

"No way man. He always looks like he could murder someone. Well, actually, everyone does. Hey, Joey's up against Blacky today in the ring. Let's go."

The two inmates made their way towards the courtyard door. Two guards stood on each side of the opening, making four total. As the two men made their way out, one of the guards on the left keeled over, and as his partner bent over to help him there was a blur and both dropped straight down. As for the other two, that same blur flew past their throats, painting the once institutional white wall blood red. The two inmates stood still, quite surprised. One glanced over to look at the slain men to his right, and yelped when he saw a familiar head of blond hair above the neck of one of the men. Then that blond stood up, and turning his face towards the men, smiled. Blood painted his teeth, which had turned to those of a wolf. His smiling face was not that of a human anymore; the angles of the cheekbones had become higher and sharper, his eyes had become a sickly gold colour. Wolfsheim was living up to his name. Raising a hand, which had become clawed and covered in coarse grey hairs, he licked off the blood.

"Do you two want get out of here?"

They nodded.

"Good. You should know how to kill."

Again they nodded.

"What are you waiting for? If you don't want to break out now, you never will."

The two men glanced at each other. They had no particular love for the slammer. Wrenching arms from the fallen guards, they set off running and gave weapons to the first people they came across. Soon after, the two men had discarded all their initial reservations about rioting, and Guderian could get to work.

Dashing down corridors, the werewolf wasted no time in finding Dietrich's cell. Entering the block of cells, Conrad's watchers were taken aback. They never expected to see their stern fellow prisoner so wild. It was an invigorating experience for them, to have life shot back into the prison walls. A guard came into the block to investigate the commotion caused by Guderian's entrance, and soon found he was quite dead. Guderian wrenched his hand out of the man's ribcage and threw the body across the cell block. The inmates were jubilant, erupting in a chorus of guttural screams. Guderian left the next guard to them, and proceeded to Dietrich's cell.

Upon opening the door, Guderian witnessed Conrad strike a blow that sent the puppeteer crashing into the brick cell wall. The young man was basically just one large wound by now, blood trickling down the corners of his mouth, blood running down his arms from where his fingernails had been torn out. He didn't get up after that hit. Conrad himself had lost all sense of purpose for beating Dietrich, and now just wanted to kill. Anyone. Turning his attention from the broken body on the floor, Conrad threw a punch towards the werewolf at the door. Consequently his fist became detached from the arm it was connected to, and Conrad then found himself pinned to the floor as the once reserved Wolfsheim sunk his sharp fangs into his chest. He could not kick the wolf-man off his chest, but no one came to help. They had all joined the rioters, and no one heard his screams echo through the prison corridors.

The floor underneath Dietrich had changed to a sanguine hue. Guderian slid his arms underneath the comatose boy and carried him out of the cell. His werewolf features subsided, and once again the Orden's Fang was silent and stern. Back to the courtyard. The riot was going well. Though the vampire prisoners were unable to assist their human counterparts outside of the complex, a sizeable hole was present in the stone perimeter walls. A good many inmates had already made their escape, but there were those who stayed behind either to join in the slaughter of prison guards or wait for their vampire friends. And there was not a single military soul. Guderian stepped through the hole, carrying Dietrich into the surrounding forest and vanishing into the trees.

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**Now for the excessive Author's Notes. Current soundtrack: Music from 'Requiem for a Dream'. I wrote so many chapter fours, but this was the only one I didn't hate. So glad that I've killed off Conrad. I hated him. I hated writing about him. Been quite sick, had exams, so I apologise for any weird spelling, grammar, whatever.  
Black Mask-Villainy  
Sun Swallowing-Fenris, the giant wolf, was a chaos deity who swallowed the sun at the end of the world.  
So why didn't he use his strings? Maybe Di caught the disease of 'stupid' from Radu or something. Ahaha. Hot iron rod.  
I have never been to prison. If they were anything like this one there would be no point to having prisons, because we'd all be dead, eh?  
And about killing off Conrad. Well, it has been influenced by certain people. If you want to know more you can trawl my profile and guess, but if you don't that's fine too.**

So, that's chapter four for you. Chapter five should come faster than this one. Holidays are upon me! Almost. At the time of writing I have only one more exam, tomorrow. Oh crap. It's almost 10:00pm. I need to write my speech before noon tomorrow. gah. Why can't they have a fan fiction exam? Oh yes. Agdistis. Greek hermaphrodite deity symbolising...what was it? Wild, untamed human nature I think.


	5. Nyx

**Chapter Five, my dears. Nyx, nyx, nyx (Latin: Nox, nox nox). Excuse my battiness. And laziness.**

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Colonel Mary Spencer straightened up in her chair. All that was moving around her, tearing Londinium along its seams; the collected weight put up on her shoulders. Close to sundown but not quite there yet: Spencer would die of shock if things didn't continue to turn worse. Albion's little deal with the Methuselah, to house all their criminals in above-ground prisons with the rest of the scum of humanity, was now turning to dust before her eyes. Not even a contingent of those bloody vampires could hold their own back; the Colonel was finding it difficult on the buffer zone between races. Reports from her honourable Methuselah counterpart, Virgil Walsh, and his security force spoke of a dissident movement calling itself Caïna. Up the Lethe without an oar, Spencer thought, Virgil knows what's best for them and they won't even listen; Walsh won't take any of this. So far there had been reports of five mass riots in the Londinium area, and of them there were two that required the urgent attention of Spencer's army; they were the closest to munitions stores. The protection of these or the protection of the citizens, having to choose one cause to devote her military strength to had Mary tearing at her hair, but in the end she could not let any escapees even attempt to arm themselves. Certain death of civilians to prevent the possible deaths of scores and scores more.

She wonders whether or not she should step outside; the invisible glares she imagines will burn her to the ground.

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"Wolfsheim! Or should I say, Guderian." The voice followed the ember tip of a cigarillo. Among the trees darkness grew fast. Two melded forms stepped forward from the foliage, one walking and one slung over a shoulder. Both stayed silent. The voice started again.

"It was a good idea to come for the puppeteer I believe. I have taken the liberty of adding the name 'Wolfsheim' to a list of members of a group named Caïna. They were quite eager to destroy Londinium, so the original arrangement was expanded to five prisons. The military will be too busy protecting itself, so Skorzeny will be able to slip in quietly. You know, it would have been such a bother to gather all of that information on Albion's defenses again, so I am rather pleased we have Dietrich back with us. We can see a little demonstration first before he explains to us what they have hidden away. Oh, how is he, my dear?"

Guderian remained silent. Being called 'dear' was a touch humiliating (though he would never admit so much, let alone open his mouth to do it). Isaak could see well enough in the dark, so Guderian held Dietrich's waist and attempted to shove the unconscious body onto Isaak. He stepped back. Guderian relented, and bundled up Dietrich's body into his arms. The young man was getting clammy, so Guderian was forced to nestle him into his chest. Isaak grinned in the dark, knowing his protégé would be furious at being cuddled like this for his own good. Guderian shuffled a little.

"Yes, Reißzahn?" Isaak used Guderian's codename for once.

"Skorzeny is late." Guderian almost whispered his words.

"I told her to be careful. She can only try so much. You know she doesn't care for a quiet mission, clean infiltration and extraction. War is a dirty business after all."

A pair of white gloves flew in front of Isaak. They landed on the forest floor, and one could see they were soaking with blood.

"You're damn right about everything."

Skorzeny, the Red Baroness, stepped forward, flexing her bare fingers. She had red on her. "Being careful really is a bugger. This way." And tucking the gloves into her pants, Skorzeny led the way back to her landing zone.

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**Aah...Nyx. Goddess of the night. I love you...So yes, this was chapter five, which was more of a bugger than chapter four, but in the end I had fun writing it. Some noties? I am feeling quite batty. Does it show?**

**Caïna: Cocytus, first ring I think. Of course I had to use Dante's Inferno. We have Virgil. Named after Cain this ring is.  
Lethe: One should always know their rivers of Hell. Again I direct you to the Inferno. Didn't that sentence sound evil?**

And so we have Skorzeny. I feel I can take as many liberties as I want with her (oh crap that sounded really suss). So, I have attempted to style her similar to Otto Skorzeny, of whom I will write somethng about sooner or later, along with Heinz Guderian Snr. So for now, good nyx all, and I hope to see you again soon for chapter six! In the meantime, if any of you see Writer's Block, give it a good boot up the arse, okay?


	6. Megaera

**AS part six: Megaera. Sorry for the wait!**

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The first thing he remembered doing upon waking up that day was giving that ungrateful Baron a taste of his strings. Making him dance on the table-top would have been fun, but Dietrich settled for squeezing Radu like a stuffed toy i.e. tight, tighter and painfully tight. It had been five days since Dietrich was rescued but he did not know; that made him exceptionally crabby in addition to seeing Radu standing there at the foot of his bed. There was no clock in the small, dark room that served as the Orden's medical bay; there was little of anything really, only the bare essentials needed for treatment. The better stuff was currently in use down in Dietrich's lab.

Looking down to his right, Dietrich could make out the line of Radu's underwear through Orden-issue pants as the Baron lay still in shock. To the left was some machine, dusty and undeniably antiquated, which was keeping him alive by processes he couldn't be bothered to remember. In front of him was the door. Closed. Dietrich lifted his right arm to flick on the switch for the small bedside lamp; he yanked something and could feel little bits of metal pulling under his skin. A drip. What else had been done, Dietrich wondered.

Peeling back the bedclothes slowly, Dietrich found he was covered mostly in bandages; fresh, white ones, criss-crossing up and down his torso, his legs, everywhere. Prodding one of the bandage mounds, he felt only a slight touch; looking back to the drip he could see a label: morphine. So that's why. He looked back down again. Shorts. A little bit of dignity goes a long way, Dietrich thought. Looking back towards Radu, he figured the vampire would be just fine without the thick Orden coat, and so he slid out of bed and took it.

Sliding the needles out of his skin, Dietrich then put on the coat. It was a bit too big on him and smelled heavily of cheap cigarettes, but it was warm. Stuffing his hands into the pockets, he felt something papery. Pulling it out, Dietrich found himself looking at a copy of Leo Tolstoy's _The Death of Ivan Ilyich_. The pages were tatty; the whole book was tatty even, complete with a large coffee stain on the front. Whatever Radu wanted to read was none of Dietrich's business, so the puppet master decided that Radu could wake up to the book. He slipped it under the Baron's cheek, and left the room, locking the door behind him.

Now that he was awake and out of bed, Dietrich wasn't sure what to do. A good place to start would be to find out the time, he figured, and according to a dusty old grandfather clock at the end of the corridor he was in, the time was 7:45. A quick glance out a nearby window told him that this was pm. 7:45 pm. If he hadn't put Radu in to such a state, he probably would have been told today's date too. Dietrich slapped himself for not asking that. Turning right at the end of the corridor, Dietrich could see the passage leading to the kitchen. For a moment the thought crossed his mind that it would be better to put on some shoes, maybe even pants…but being completely out for however many days, he thought, was a perfectly good reason to forgo shoes. Besides, he was hungry.

Stepping on to the cold floor of the kitchen, Dietrich regretted having no shoes. Everything was a little bit chilly now, and while Radu's coat was warm it only covered Dietrich down to his knees leaving the rest of his legs exposed. The kitchen was a little cramped, and though people did use it every day it still had the look of something ancient about it. Every appliance was cold steel, bench tops were stone; he had been told once that it used to be a lab, but Isaak didn't like the idea of an above-ground laboratory, so it was turned in to a kitchen to cater for those living in the base. Prior to that people just bought food from elsewhere, dined out, or fitted fridges into their quarters; needless to say, the small kitchen was a relief.

"Dietrich! I certainly hope you've got at least underpants on under that coat." Someone was in the kitchen with Dietrich. Turning his head to the right, he saw her standing next to the sink. Helga was glaring at him over a cup of jasmine tea, frowning in disapproval. Dietrich sighed. Radu was annoying; Helga more so.

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**My copy of_ Ivan Ilyich_ is in pristine condition. It hasn't even been read yet. Megaera was one of the Erinyes in Greek mythology. The corresponding Roman name is the Furies. Megaera means 'the grudging'. So what happens now? How will Dietrich deal with Helga? And what will happen when Radu finally recovers from shock? You might have to be patient and wait a while for the next part. For me, it's crunch time. Study or fail. I may update Clav. Nox more frequently than this seeing as it's more light-hearted, but don't fret.**


End file.
